


Not As Man Sees

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Vagrant Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-18
Updated: 2006-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney dreams of the one who is to come,  though he never sees the man's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not As Man Sees

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely random inspiration from I Samuel 16:7, hence the title.
> 
> Written for W2

 

 

Somewhere between waking and sleeping, the prophet dreams. None of the faces and shapes and words of mortal men reach this place, unless They will it. Tonight, as is so often the case, They do not.

What the prophet dreams is a strong sense of will, a determination that carries its originator through battles seen and unseen. One might even go so far as to use the word 'stubborn', if not for the sense of justice, and the clear ability to adapt on a moment's notice. The soul is intelligent, more than one might expect from one who has chosen a life defined by the sword - and the axe, and the bow, and his own hands. The prophet can see the hands sometimes, large and sun-darkened and sure, marred with light lines from skirmishes in the past, fingers clenching around the hilt.

Sometimes, too, at his desperation, They see fit to grant him a glimpse of more from the realm he inhabits during the day. He has seen strong shoulders, short hair groomed with diligence in mind rather than appearance, lips set in a stoic frown. These things can deceive, and the prophet might have mistaken this for one of many other men in his acquaintance, had he relied on these things. It is the soul that They have chosen, rather than the body; it is this that the prophet must seek in his waking hours.

They have given him but one sure clue from his former world, and how fitting that a soul who has chosen to define his life by the sword is indeed marked by the sword he carries. The prophet has seen it before, in visions, in memories of the centuries predating his own birth. She has carried it, She has danced with it, She has given it to those she favors. In this age, too, it will be a token of her favor, the grail for which he hunts...

Sydney awakes from the message, which has grown more and more urgent of late, whether by his own will or Theirs he cannot be certain. The gods are timeless, but he is aware that his own hourglass runs low indeed. His hunt will reach an end, whether he fails or succeeds.

Sydney does not tolerate failure.

At the nearly imperceptible shift upon the bed, Hardin stirs almost beneath him, making a faint sound. He is concerned - Sydney has been both eating and sleeping less and less. His concern is lessened by a whisper against his neck, saying that all is well. A tired sigh, and then a hand falls absently upon Sydney's skin as Hardin falls still and silent once more.

Once, Sydney had considered that the hands he'd seen might belong to Hardin. Now, after years, he knows better. He knows Hardin's hands too well.

Hardin's next faint sound seems a weary protest, but the utterings of his soul are more certain when Sydney rolls over, more completely atop him. Hardin knows Sydney's hands much too well also.

\---

Agent Riot is not a man of vagaries. Creativity, yes, but there is little place for fanciful things in his world. He is presented with an obstacle, and either he climbs it, he finds a way around it, or he is crushed by it. The last has happened but once, and since he has sought out greater obstacles, one after the other. Thus far, none has finished the job.

His supplies, however, have not been so lucky as he. "...lost at the bottom of the river..." the provisioner is saying, half in exasperation and half in wonder. "And yet you returned to us."

"He was adequate with a bow or a sword," Riot says flatly. He has already given the report to the Grand Steward, and wonders why he must repeat it here. "He knew not what to do in such close quarters."

"I see..." The provisioner shakes his head ruefully as he unlocks the armory. Riot knows he has been an expensive agent, but the VKP can hardly retire an agent with his record for mere financial reasons. Himself, he bears no guilt over it. He's not given to waste, but uses what he has to ensure that he has finished what he was given to finish.

Inside the dim room, lamplight glints off countless articles of polished metal, gathered from various sources to await their day of service. Riot tries on a pair of gauntlets and, finding their mobility lacking, picks up a set of plated gloves. Greaves to replace those ruined by the underwater grappling, a buckler to replace one which had joined his weapon. The weapon itself is always the hardest to replace, for although Riot is more than competent with an assortment of weaponry, some fit better than others. His last, a set of matched daggers for throwing or striking and a heavy mace, had set well in his hands.

He would do well to take a bowgun, he thinks, as he could stand to have a ranged weapon which needs no retrieval next time. Perhaps he might try something light for his melee weapon, to compensate for the weight of both bow and bolts. No mace or hammer, then, but something more basic.

His eyes skim the rows of weapons lining the room, and fall upon the swords. One in particular draws his eye, though he finds no reason why it should. It appears rather plain, a scimitar in classic style. It might have been at home on a battlefield of today, or in a duel thousands of years ago.

No embellishment or mark upon the blade - which is in excellent condition, he notes as he takes it to hand to examine. Still, there seems an oddity about it which he cannot pin down. Not made by the local smiths, whose work he knows, but neither is it obviously foreign work. "From whence did this blade come?" he asks the provisioner, switching hands. It seems comfortable in either.

"I could not say without consulting the records," the provisioner replies. "...Does the pedigree matter?" He sounds honestly puzzled - clearly he does not understand soldiers.

"No. I'm not intending to breed it." Riot twirls it casually, and is satisfied both with the balance and with the odd look on the provisioner's face. He is aware of the snide remarks about him that have been made by assorted compatriots.

At any rate, the sword is a fine one. His one concession to imagination in his current line of work involves giving a worthy weapon a worthy name, and he looks at this one, considering. Sturdy and simple as it may be, somehow the curve of the blade inspires thoughts of grace. The flickering lamplight flares for a moment with a snap, and Riot sees the flame reflected in the steel.

"...Fandango," he murmurs, uncertain of what causes him to think of a woman dancing. He did dance with a woman, once, at their wedding. It was not that dance.

"Mmm?"

He shakes his head at the provisioner. "Nothing." Whatever passing fancy had struck him, it seems a fitting name somehow, and he twirls Fandango again. "This will do."

"Very well." The provisioner nods and makes a note of his claims, and Riot wonders as he slides the weapon into the proper place on his belt... why does he suddenly feel as if he is being targeted? This is no unfamiliar sensation, and yet...

\---

They have no time for this, Sydney thinks, thoughts as swift as his movements. Time is marching on as he dallies with Parliament's interference. Although the boy has been removed from the manor, he is only their insurance if he should fail to find this last piece of the puzzle. There is little time left, and Sydney would succeed.

He has never been a swordsman, truthfully, and is no match for a Riskbreaker - but then he has surprise, immortality, and the Dark on his side. The Riskbreaker is on the defensive now, throwing himself out of harm's way just before the sword strikes flesh, for Sydney is too close and too quick for him to get in another shot with the bowgun, even should it be more effective this time. The hole in Sydney's heart has slowed him, admittedly, and the Riskbreaker is given a moment to roll to his feet, to draw his sword.

Sydney stops short, taking in the blade, the hilt, the hand closed around it. The prophet sees deeper, and beholds a heart that he has seen many times, in detail, in another realm. The prophet hears the Dark sing.

 


End file.
